Meet the Protagonist
by Twisted Mackeral
Summary: A Team Fortress 2 story. I apologize for befouling the Half-Life section but there's no Team Fortress section to correctly befoul. A new Medic joins Red Team.


_Twisted Mackeral: I apologize for my atrocious use of phonetics for the Australian accent._

* * *

**Meet the protagonist**

Not fast enough to be a scout.

Not fat enough to be a heavy.

Not suave enough to be a spy.

Not smart enough to be an engie.

Not patient enough to be a sniper.

And, lacking the suicidally-insane tendencies required for entry into either the pyro, soldier, or demoman classes, I'd settled for the noble profession of Medicine.

I disembarked at a station that was little more than a cube of concrete dumped in a desert next to a railway line. A camper van was parked next to it, against and in the shade of which there leaned a tall, thin man. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat back and removed his sunglasses as he greeted me with a curt but amicable "welcome to red team, mate".

I climbed into the hot, airless cabin smelling of cigarette smoke, brushed the discarded cigarette buts and high-calibre shells off the passenger seat, and settled in for a long journey to a place that didn't exist on any map.

For a hired assassin, the Sniper was pleasant enough company, if a little economical with his words. He didn't chat but answered any question I put to him, of which I had a considerable number. I especially admired his terse summaries of my soon-to-be-team-mates

"You understand I can't give yeh their real names yet," he began with.

"Of course."

"Right… well… I suppose you'll be working with the doc when you arrive. A good man. Efficient. Proud of his work." Qualities the Sniper held in high regard, I quickly found.

"He doesn't mind having me then?"

"Nah! Can never have too many medics. Heavy's bin' gettin' the place all nice for ya in-fact."

I waited patiently for the Sniper to give his opinion of the heavy.

Ten minutes later: "Yeh… nice guy, big 'ead, small brain."

Ten more minutes passed. The Sniper was focused on the road, as though navigating the long, straight, empty stretches of highway required his utmost attention. He gave the impression of having completely forgotten I was there.

"The Scout's a whiner, mind. Bit younger'n you. A roight little bleeder. And the Spy-" He hawked and spat, hitting the ashtray on the dashboard with perfect aim. "Don' get me started on 'im."

The camper chundered on through the desolate dustbowl of the American south-west. Eventually we turned off the highway and on to a barely-defined track that headed between a group of mesas and off into the open desert. Eventually the track petered out. The camper came to a stop shortly thereafter. The Sniper spread a map over the dashboard and surveyed the landscape through the grubby windshield. It was largely featureless, dotted here and there with cacti. The map was largely yellow.

"'e's a gent when he wants to be, but a right bloody wanka if ya' cross 'im. Womaniser, that's his problem. Not enough women about te' amuse 'im. Very unprofessional."

"'Not _enough_ women'?"

The Sniper pondered my question for a few seconds. "Well… not any… really. 'Cept Sasha, of course." He folded the map and set off with purpose across a few more miles of empty dirty-sand until an old mine-cart track presented itself, at which point we turned and followed alongside it. It was mid-afternoon by now. The hot sun poured in through the passenger window.

"Engineer's too smart fer 'is own good. Cares more fer his machines than 'is team-mates sometimes. Soldier (he pronounced it soljah) enjoys 'imself too much in my opinion. As does the Pyro. The Demoman… is a black, Scottish cyclops. Self-proclaimed," he added, apparently noticing my quizzical expression. "British, yerself?"

"English."

The Sniper nodded and grinned. "God save the Queen."

"Um… God save the Queen," I echoed, feeling it was expected of me.

"'Ere, you might want to think about changin' out of those jeans before we arrive, mate. There's sentries that'll shoot at anything blue." He gestured into the back of the camper van with a thumb. "Brought yer uniform along if yeh want to get changed back there."

"Thanks."

"No worries."

I climbed into the back. The curtains were drawn over the windows making it cooler but also darker, so it was a few minutes of scrabbling around among boxes of ammo and jars of urine before I found the briefcase containing my equipment. It was excitingly heavy as I lifted it onto the camper's bunk and opened it. A soft red glow from within illuminated the contents.

I wouldn't receive my white trenchcoat until I was officially a medic. Instead, as an intern, I got a pair of light-red scrubs. The sight of these pink garments that I'd be required to wear for the coming months would probably have been quite distressing had they not been laying right next to the kritzkrieg. It slotted snugly into its own compartment in the case; was of sturdy but elegant design; and a solid black in colour, except for the slots in the nozzle, out of which emanated the soothing red glow. It was already powered up and ready to use.

"I love you," I said gently, reaching out to stroke it. It was warm, like a baby.

"Hope yer not talking ta' me, mate."

Undoing the straps securing it, I slid it out of its case, and very gingerly held it up for him to see. He craned his neck to look and gave it a thumbs-up.

"Bloody beut'! Kritz an' all. Quite partial to the kritz myself."

If I'd been completely honest, I would have preferred having the ubercharge capability - it would have greatly increased my survivability, something I didn't have confidence in at all - but for now, I was too enamoured by the kritz's glowing beauty to care.

A bonesaw sat in bottom of the kritzkrieg compartment. It's flat, silver blade reflected the kritzkrieg's glow. It was no ubersaw, but still sharp and weighty enough to slice cleanly through limbs. It came accompanied with a holster that I slung around my waist, after shouldering the kritz and its associated backpack.

"Moight want to hunker down," the Sniper called back to me. "Moiyns."

Distracted with admiring how heroic my reflection in the broad side of the bonesaw blade looked with the medipack strapped to my back and the kritzkrieg nestled in the crook of my arm, I didn't immediately translate the pronunciation. "Sorry?"

The Sniper was wrestling with the steering wheel. The van swerved violently to the left. A high-pitched bleeping became apparent.

"Moiyns, mate! Moiyns!"

_Ooh, he meant mi-_

At which point the mines that laced the desert floor beneath our camper van exploded.


End file.
